Winter Roses
by Ironic-Swag
Summary: In the house where Sherlock lived with his parents, there were several bushes of roses. They flower well in the summer, and even surviving throughout winter, only thanks to his mother's hard work. Warnings for implied character suicide.


In the house where Sherlock lived with his parents until he was eighteen, there were several bushes of roses. They flowered well in the summer, blooming beautifully thanks to his mother's hard work in the gardens for a good portion of the morning. Even during the winter, they still survived, resilient against the frost of the winter and often heavy snow, as his mother was always loving over them, almost like family. She knew exactly what to do.

Most people that visited his house didn't really notice the bright beauty of the common flowers, perhaps choosing to complement the architecture of their house, or the scenery of the area. Still, his mother pruned and weeded and watered them everyday.

John noticed them right away; Sherlock lead him up his house, at the end of their primary school day.

"Those are nice flowers." He had stated, even in his primitive seven-year-old language.

"Mummy says it takes a lot of care to keep them alive in the winter." Sherlock had responded.

"Yeah." John replied.

And it became a sort of tradition. John inspected the roses every time he visited the Holmes residence, talking about their colour, or vibrant aroma. And during the winter, he would again complement how well they survived.

* * *

Sherlock's ten when John's parent's divorce. He tells Sherlock there was a lot of screaming, how Jonathan, John's dad, was often dancing on the line between abusive and angry. How, perhaps, Jonathan didn't seem to understand there _was_ a line at all. John and his mother on one side. Jonathan on another.

He knew all this because Sherlock was the first person John had come running to. His nose running, eyes red from the streaming tears, John had practically run from his house to Sherlock's. Through heavy sobs, he'd told the story of his parent's argument and told of how it ended in a word he didn't understand – divorce.

Sherlock's mother had arrived in the room at that point. Though Sherlock and John did not understand why, she'd turned quite pale and made her way to where John sat. Gently, with the same caring hands she used for the roses, she placed her calloused hand on John's shoulder. He only cried more. But, surely enough, John did stop. Slowly, the tears grinded to a halt and they dried up.

* * *

When his mother finally succumbed to her battle with cancer, when he was fifteen, no one knew how to keep the roses alive during the winter. So, slowly, they began to wilt then eventually, die. It saddened Sherlock to see them in that state, so he removed all the roses from the front of his garden, until the house was bare once more.

John had stopped visiting around that time, too. He'd make excuses every time Sherlock suggested it, and when he realised John's dad was visiting once more every Saturday, he started asking him round on Sundays instead.

It was their first Sunday together when John noticed the missing roses.

"Hey, where did the roses go?" He had asked, but there was no heart behind it. His eyes were an empty sky.

"Only mummy knew how to maintain them." Sherlock shrugged, as he unlocked their front door, allowing John in.

"Oh." John stated, simple and blunt. Sherlock had enough of piteous glances, and pointless phrases of comfort. "The house is so boring without th0se- those roses."

"I wouldn't say that." John shakes his head, a fond smile playing on his face. "Maybe it's all the fun I had here as a kid."

"You're really nostalgic? What are you, fifty?" Sherlock jokes, smiling at John's laugh.

"Everything's changing too fast." John shakes his head.

There's tears in his eyes.

* * *

It's December, not too long after John's sixteenth birthday when he finally does it. Sherlock's mad at himself for not being able to tell, not seeing how empty John's eyes looked at him. Now those empty eyes stare at him from a casket, at his own funeral, the rough friction burns from the rope he used to hang himself with.

Part of him wants to be shocked. That way the guilt would subside. But the truth is, he isn't. Part of him always saw the hollow way John looked at the ground, at his feet, shuffling around awkwardly, going very much unnoticed. Except for Sherlock, who always made sure John did not feel ignored.

But, Sherlock supposes, as he ponders over the open casket of his best friend, John did feel alone. Alone enough to do this, at least.

"You're such an idiot." Sherlock whispers, lowly at first. "We were best friends. How could you leave me here? You're such a moron. You're a moron!"

He's yelling at the top of his voice by the time someone notices, grabbing his arms as he attempts to kick the casket and all it represents. It shakes violently with each kick, but John still lies there, peacefully, oblivious.

"Why, John?" He sobs, finally letting his legs go limp and he stops kicking. His knees give out under him when he's let go, and he kneels over the casket and just howls.

He's a little surprised when John's mother approaches him. She's got incredibly red eyes, and she's clutching a small square piece of paper. A picture of John, as a small boy, he realises.

"Were you close to John?" She asks him, looking a little high up, with their height difference.

"We've been best friends for years." He says, adamantly.

"So yes?"

"I guess. I've never been good with friends, god knows why he stayed with me for so long."

The woman chuckles a very small amount, a raspy one syllable laugh that Sherlock realises is a smoker's laugh. Rough, raspy, not too dissimilar to sandpaper.

"I don't know why he did it." She laments. "I miss him already."

Sherlock can see how miserable she is. Everything about her, her posture, her eyes, her nose, her hands, her clothing, her frame, it all screams desperation and loneliness.

"Can I hug you?" He asks her, abruptly and bluntly.

"What?" She looks at him, and sees he's serious. Her mouth breaks into a smile. "Oh, okay, then."

They hug. It's nice. It's warm, motherly. And within seconds, Sherlock's crying again. John's mother smells like his, of homemade food and scented candles. She smells of cosy nights at home and John.

This was really just a quick drabble that I wrote because the prompt 'Roses in Winter' really inspired me for some reason. I had to get it down else I'd never be able to sleep!

Thanks for reading, and if it doesn't trouble you, please review! Any feedback is great, positive, negative, even if it's just to say hi! Thanks!

Edit: Fixed the problem with time/place changes. I did have a little dash thingy in there, but it just didn't show up and I didn't notice. That kids is why you check your work once it's been uploaded!


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